I care about you, believe it or not
by m-is-for-Molly-and-Mansfield
Summary: After a bad night, John Watson realises there's more to Sherlock than what meets the eye. He sets out to find the problem that's causing his friends destructive behaviour. TRIGGER WARNINGS- SELF HARM, TALK OF SUICIDE AND DRUGS. My first Sherlock fanfic, reviews would be lovely! Enjoy :)
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome to my first Sherlock fanfic! Sorry, the chapters are quite short (relatively new to the fandom) but they should hopefully expand as we go along :) Enjoy! -Sophie x**

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The man moved frantically through the darkened alleyways of London, his long coat swishing behind him. He was heading towards the sound of moans, of cries, pleas for help.

"Sherlock. Help me..."

The curly haired man turned the corner to see his flatmate John, sprawled across the floor, surrounded by a pool of blood. Sherlock scanned him quickly- torn coat at the shoulders so he must have been grabbed, few signs of injury at the front, not as much blood as there could be- a stabbing.

"John? Are you still with me?"

No answer.

Sherlock was starting to panic now. The colour had drained from his friends face and his lips were going slightly blue. The detective called 999 quickly, and held the injured man's hand, which was cold and clammy with sweat and blood. His pulse was weakening, and John now had no colour left at all.

He was nothing but a corpse Sherlock would see on a daily basis. Nothing but another client. Still, silent, dead. The faint sound of a heart monster could be heard in the distance, the sound of a flat line- no heartbeat.

The alley started to spin as the genius tried to make sense of what was happening, but it was useless.

"You let him die."

Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock didn't move a muscle.

"You should have saved him."The sound of another male picked up beside him.

"You could have stopped the bleeding. Why didn't you?" Lestrade.

Sherlock turned slowly to see more familiar faces.

Molly.

Mycroft.

Mrs Hudson. "Oh Sherlock," she sighed sadly, "what have you done..."

"SHUT UP!" He shouted, unable to control himself. "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!"

"You killed him." Said Molly shakily.

"It's your fault, little brother. You were always so useless... Nothing changed at all, did it." Mycroft stated bluntly. They all formed a circle around him and moved forward slowly, trapping the detective where he stood.

"You killed him, you killed him, you killed him." They chanted, over and over again as they drew ever closer. Sherlock found himself crying; mourning the death of his best friend, being tormented by those he thought cared about him, the feeling of failure- something the great Sherlock Holmes had never felt.

He felt his chest constrict as his friends and colleagues trapped him against the cold alley wall. He couldn't breathe, there was no oxygen- he was suffocating, suffocating, suffocating...


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter is a little longer :D**

**Thankyou for all your reviews, they honestly make my day! I should be updating every Sunday now, so you can look forward to that ;) **

**The next chapter is going to be a little more interesting, but for now- enjoy!**

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"Sherlock?" "Sherlock can you hear me?" John? Sherlock opened his eyes he'd shut in fear, to find the dark figure of John looming over him.

"What happened? Have you been on the drugs again?" John looked around, before spotting something glinting beside his bed.

"Actually no, don't answer that- it's pretty obvious." The figure stood up sharply, sighed at his flatmate and stomped out of the detectives room, slamming the door behind him.

He'd spotted the needle that had been used. Damn, thought Sherlock. How did I manage to pass out? Even though John was mad at him, he was so glad to hear his voice. The dream had seemed so real, John looked so dead... But the druggie had been too unhappy to try forget about it this time. It was between the blade and the drugs, and it looked as if the drugs had won.

He got to his feet, and stumbled into the bathroom. The room span, but only because he'd gotten up too fast. As he looked in the mirror, Sherlock realised just how bad he looked. There were bags under his eyes, his hair was messier than usual, and his top, usually crisp, was crumpled beyond belief, and stained with some unidentifiable substances.

After freshening up a bit, he went into the living room and sat down on the sofa. John, who was in the kitchen, took no notice of the man, and continued to make himself some toast. Once the butter had been replaced, he went and sat in the chair next to their coffee table.

"Why did you do it?" He asked quietly. Sherlock turned to see the man looking at him intently, his eyebrows furrowed. The detective looked away.

"Dammit Sherlock, don't ignore me. This has gone on for too long. You were clean for 2 years for god's sakes! Why did you relapse?" He flinched at the word "relapse", and it didn't go unnoticed.

"You flinched." He said sharply.

"What? I did nothing of the sort." Snapped Sherlock.

"Oh don't try arguing with me Sherlock, i'm trying to help you! Something must have happened to make you-" the detective looked at him, "-start again." "Are you bored? Angry? Upset? Depressed?" The doctor persisted.

"There's nothing John, so LEAVE ME ALONE." Sherlock got up, grabbed his coat and disappeared, slamming the door behind him, and leaving a very infuriated flatmate behind. He stormed down the steps and out the front door, not bothering to lock it.

The detective started walking, no idea of his destination yet. The paths went on and on as Sherlock became deep in thought. He hadn't felt the urges, as John said, in 2 years. He learnt to control and banish his emotions, but it seems that wasn't enough. They're starting to show, Sherlock thought angrily. I'm starting to get upset again, angry with everyone. It can't lead to cutting again this time, it can't. It was too close a shave last time, when he was a teenager, it CAN'T happen again. But the urges are getting stronger, people are getting angrier and more frustrated with me... I'm sure they won't notice if I only do it once or twice... Just to get closer to my one, true friend...

"NO!" He shouted, kicking the nearest bin. Passers by stared at him before moving slowly on. "What was it that damn Disney film said? Conceal don't feel?" He muttered. "Conceal... Conceal..." Over and over as he made his way back to 221b.

"Oh, calmed down now have you, after your little strop?" John said as he walked through the door. Sherlock gave his flatmate an icy stare and stormed to his room.


	3. Chapter 3

**This chapter was a little more interesting to write, I have to say :) Try and work out who is writing it, oh- and thankyou for the reviews!**

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_"Why doesn't he talk?" _

_"I don't know, he's such a nutcase..." _

_"Hey, weirdo? Why don't you talk?" _

_His classmates weren't the nicest of people, as you can probably tell. They made his life pretty miserable, as a teenager. He couldn't walk through the corridors without someone sneering at him, or throwing paper at his head. _

_The poor boy didn't have anyone to talk to. No-one seemed to care for him at all. Mycroft, his brother, was a smart boy. I've never had an encounter with him. Their parents were well made, solitary people. They kept themselves to themselves and only spoke to their children if they spoke to them first._

_ Sherlock liked to talk to me, unlike most people. On a night mostly, when no-one was around. He'd bring out the box that lay at the back of his wardrobe, and I'd be instantly drawn to his bed, concerned, yet a little gleeful. _

_So many times, he almost joined me. So many times, he was driven to hurting himself to take away the pain. It's not my job to care about him, but I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the boy. He was still a stranger to the world for goodness sake, and already he knew he didn't want to stay until he became familiar with it. _

_I didn't have many jobs with young teenagers. Mostly city adults, too stressed and tired to carry on. So it was a pleasant surprise, the first time Sherlock Holmes called me to his bedside. _

_Often, he liked to mutter what had happened that day. All the things that had driven him to do this; to summon me. _

_The first time he called, he muttered about his dinner break at school. A group of boys found his little hiding spot (in the library I think) where he ate his dinner, and gave him hell. They beat him, mocked him, spat at him and called him all the names under the sun. Then, the apparent leader of the group, pulled out a knife. He pulled up Sherlock's shorts and whilst the other boys where holding the shouting boy down, he carved "WEIRDO" into his right leg. _

_It hurt, and it was horrible, but Sherlock felt a release- a distraction, from what they were calling him. That night, he said he'd heard about cutting before. About what it feels like, and what a distraction it makes._

_ So once his parents went to bed (after they shouted at him for missing 5th lesson due to those boys), the young boy sat up, and reached under his bed for his pencil case. He unzipped it slowly and quietly, before pulling out a sleek, shiny pair of scissors._

_ The boy watched them glint in the moonlight as he turned them over and over in his hands. He put them to his face, and felt the cool, calm feeling they gave him. _

_Then, before he knew it, Sherlock dragged it across his left thigh. He watched as the crimson blood started to drip down his leg. _

_He was mesmerised. _

_It stung a bit, but it took his mind off of that day completely. All thoughts of bulling were wiped from his memory. All that lay in his mind, was the relief of having a distraction, of having something to go to when things got tough. He wiped his leg, laid down, and after a while of frustrated tossing and turning, fell into an agitated sleep. _

_All that time I stood and watched him, with a mixture of glee and sorrow for the broken little boy that lay in front of me._


	4. Chapter 4

**Here's the next update! Bit of humour in this chapter, just the way I like it xD thanks for all the favourites and follows! Reviews would be greatly appreciated :) and incase you didn't guess, the last chapter was narrated by... Death!**

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"Sherlock answer your damn phone!" John shouted in the direction of the detective's bedroom.

There was no answer.

It was 10am on Saturday morning, and John had been out at his current girlfriends the night before, before returning to 221B early that morning. He was still wondering about Sherlock, so he wanted to get back as soon as possible to make sure he was ok.

However, he entered the flat to find Sherlock's phone ringing, and it did persistently for the next half an hour, until it drove John round the bend. It wouldn't have been too bad if it was a good ringtone, but it was the sound of a very persistent alarm clock. Hmmm.

"Sherlock for gods sake! Get up!" He shouted for the second time.

Again, no answer.

"Right, if you don't shut that damn thing up I'm coming in there myself."

"Doors locked." Came a muffled voice from inside.

"Then I'll break it down, just shut that infernal racket up!"

"But I don't want to answer it!"

"THEN DECLINE THE BLOODY THING JUST SHUT IT UP!" John roared.

"IT DOESN'T HAVE A DECLINE BUTTON!" Sherlock roared back.

"You have," John said quietly, "exactly 5 seconds to shut that up before I break the door down."

"You can barely lift the shopping, don't flatter yourself."

"FIVE."

"John for goodn-"

"FOUR."

"Oh shut up-"

"T-H-R-E-E"

"Alright alright..." Sherlock muttered.

The noise of the phone was soon replaced by the irritated voice of John's flatmate.

Then, very quickly, the room went deadly silent. John will admit, he was a little pleased, but it wasn't like Sherlock to not talk on the phone. Every time he phones John he talks for England.

John knocked on his door. "Everything alright in there?"

"Yes go away." Came Sherlock's sharp voice.

John was about to ask again, but in fear of having his head bitten off, he left it. Instead, he sat in his chair and wondered why Sherlock had been acting so weirdly recently.

"Perhaps it's his time of the month." John snorted out loud.

"What was that sorry?" Sherlock said as he walked past.

"Nothing..." John muttered quickly. "You were quiet."

"Very good observation John. Full marks." said Sherlock sarcastically.

"You're not usually quiet. You never shut up when you phone me."

"And?"

"Well, why were you so quiet? And why didn't you want to answer it?"

"Because I didn't want to, it's none of your business."

John sighed. "I only asked because you've been acting weird recently."

"Have I? Not really noticed." Said Sherlock brushing it off. "Tea?"

"You must have! Drugs again, phone calls, being snappy..." John said, looking at him.

"Mmmm. Tea?"

"Wha- no! I want to know what's up! Who was it on the phone?"

"No-one you'd know."

"Try me."

"Peter."

John was becoming impatient. "Peter who?"

"Peter Piper, calling his rats." Sherlock said with a slight snigger.

"You know what? I give up. I try to help you but you push it away. I'm done. You can deal with it on your own from now on." He said before storming upstairs to his room.


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm so sorry I didn't update last Sunday, I've been so busy with going back to school! So as a let-me-make-it-up-to-you, I'm updating it now instead of tomorrow :)**

***fun fact- this is my longest chapter so far! Around 900 words which is a lot for this fic! My James Bond one averaged at around 1,200 words a chapter***

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Immediately John regretted what he'd said, but was too proud to go and apologise that quickly. He laid on his bed and tried to think of an explanation for his flatmates odd behaviour, but he just couldn't work it out. Unlike his friend, John was crap at deducing things.

After a few hours of silence from the living room, he went to go and say sorry.

"Sherlock? Are you still here?"

The flat was eerily quiet, but John hadn't heard the door go.

"Sherlock?" He called again, before going over to the detectives bedroom door once again and standing outside it. He could hear small movements coming from inside.

"Listen Sherlock I'm sorry for what I said earlier. You just got on my nerves a little, that's all! If you ever want to talk about anything, not that I imagine you would, but, if, you know, there is anything, you know you can come to me."

The sounds of movement had stopped.

"Did you hear that?" He said, frowning a little.

"Yes." Came the quiet reply.

Well that was blunt, thought John, a thank you wouldn't have cost anything...

"Do you want a cup of tea making?" He asked.

"No."

"Something to eat? It's almost 7..."

"No."

Hmm. Ok then, John thought.

"Ok, well I'm going to see Mrs Hudson after I've had a drink, incase you'd wondered where I'd gone."

"Ok."

As John stirred his tea, he heard the quiet click of a door opening, and he turned to see Sherlock emerge from his room in a long sleeved jumper and trousers, even though it was the middle of summer. John also noticed his eyes seemed a little red.

"Everything... Ok?" He asked tentatively.

"Yes."

"Why are your eyes red?"

"Hayfever."

"You don't have hayfever!"

Sherlock just glared at him before walking to the bathroom. He hadn't emerged when John left to see Mrs Hudson.

"Have you noticed Sherlock acting weirdly recently?" Asked John as he sat in one of his landlady's comfy armchairs.

"He's been more... focused I suppose, but I put that down to a case. Homemade jam tart?"

"Yes please. He's not on a case." John said, furrowing his eyebrows as he took one of the delicious looking tarts that Mrs Hudson had offered him.

"Take another for Sherlock, they were his favourites when he was younger. I don't know what it could be then... He doesn't exactly have much of a personal life does he?!" She laughed before sitting in the chair opposite to John's.

"You knew him when he was younger?" John asked, surprised.

"Oh yes, before I met my husband I worked in a school library. The school the Holmes' family went to, and I started just as Sherlock and Mycroft did. I saw a lot of both of them actually. Mycroft would sit and read coursework books whenever he could, and Sherlock sat in a corner near my desk."

"What was he like?"

"Sherlock?"

"Yeah. Was he as arrogant as he is now?"

"No no, far from it! He was a shy little thing, but always very polite!" She sighed fondly. "He always said hello to me, and asked how I was... We spent many a lunchtimes chatting! Whenever I baked at home, I'd always save some for Sherlock. As I said, jam tarts were always his favourite. He liked to bake too, once upon a time. I'm not too sure about nowadays though."

"I think I already know the answer to this question, but did he not have any friends?"

"Not that I remember, no. I think I was the closest he had to a friend to be quite honest. I was the only person he'd have a proper voluntary conversation with by the sounds of it."

John was intrigued. Sherlock never talked about his school days, and the army doctor was a nosy bugger at the best of times.

"He spent every lunchtime with you until he left school then I take it?"

"No, surprisingly. He came in one day when he was in year 9, and said hello like he usually would, but he seemed a little more on edge than usual. I left to get a coffee from the staff room, and when I got back, he'd gone! I didn't see him at lunch time at all after that... I missed him quite a bit, you know. It sounds silly, but he was such a lovely boy. I've always wondered what happened that day, but whenever I bring it up, he brushes it off or changes the subject quickly." She looked at her watch, "It's 10 o clock John, do you not have work tomorrow?"

"Is it?! Crap I do... Better go." He stood up and placed his cup on Mrs Hudson's tea tray quickly. "Thanks for the info on Sherlock, I might try bring the library incident up and work out what happened! Do a role reversal for once."

"Ok dear, pop in again soon! And don't be too pressing when you're talking about it, will you? I'm sure he'd tell you if he wanted to." The landlady kissed John on the cheek before he turned and climbed the few stairs to the flat, his mind filled with questions.


	6. Chapter 6

**Another chapter narrated by Death! Only a short one this week, been a little busy (writing a normal story as well as exams as well as this). Enjoy! -Sophie x**

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_After the first time Sherlock Holmes cut himself on his thigh, I was summoned to his bedside more times than I can remember. Not that I'm complaining of course, his teasing did keep me on my toes._

_The boy couldn't risk going to the library again after the incident the day before, so instead he took his dinner to the field outside. He sat at the very far end, where the sound of silence was his only companion. The grass grew tall and unruly, perfect for hiding in, thought Sherlock as he tucked into his home made meat and potato pie. Mmm, he thought, Mrs Hudson would have been proud, it was by far his best yet._

_The boys from the library didn't leave him alone though. No, far from it. Every once in a while I'd go check up on him, and I'd always find him reading a hate letter, or a violent encounter in the school corridor. This, of course, led to more harm than the boys realised._

_Sherlock, like most teenagers, didn't have a very long intention span. He soon seemed to get bored of cutting, and wanted to try something else. He got too used to the stinging sensation, and he didn't have much room on his already scarred body,_

_The boy knew for a fact there was a dealer at his school, so that night he gathered up as much money as he could find and on the way to school the next morning, changed it for notes. He then went to see this very scruffy looking boy who stood outside the school gates every morning. I knew for a fact he was called Jamie, as like our friend Sherlock, he too liked to abuse his body, but with drugs, not a blade._

_The quiet boy approached the gates, money folded in his trembling hand. He wasn't an idiot, he knew what he was about to do could get him imprisoned, but like so many others- he did it anyway. After researching the different ones he could take, he settled for either cannabis or cocaine._

_"Hello Holmes." Jamie sneered as Sherlock walked up to him. "What, come to get some eh?"_

_"Yes, in fact." Said Sherlock as confidently as he could._

_Jamie looked surprised, but masked it quickly before pulling out a piece of paper. _

_"I got weed, crystal or coke, take your pick quickly." He said._

_"Um... Um..." Said the Holmes boy. He wasn't expecting street names, and tried to remember what they were in medical terms._

_"Um I'll take the, um, coke? Please?"_

_"You don't seem so sure."_

_"I am, trust me."_

_He looked at him skeptically. "Alright. 80."_

_"80 what?" Asked Sherlock._

_"Quid, obviously!"_

_"Oh, alright, one sec..."_

_He fumbled in his pockets for the notes and counted them quickly. He just had enough._

_"Here you go." He gave them to Jamie, who in return gave Sherlock a small packet of white powder, before hurrying into school. Sherlock just stood there, clutching his purchase, before he too walked into the school building._

_That day was a particularly bad one, with Sherlock collapsing to tears at lunch time. The boys hadn't realised where his lunch spot was yet, so he was safe for now._

_When he got home, he found a note from his parents saying they'd taken Mycroft to the theatre and won't be back until late. _

_Perfect._

_Sherlock then went up to his bedroom, and opened the white packet. He prepared it for injecting using one of his old doctors sets, and a guide from the internet (who would upload a guide on how to inject yourself with cocaine? Thought Sherlock.) As he inserted the needle into his arm, he lay back on his bed and waited for the effects to kick in._

_He didn't have to wait long._

_Soon enough, a rush of happiness filled his body, making every part of him tingle. It gave him the feeling that he could do anything, be anyone. "Fuck those bullies!" He shouted out loud, punching the air._

_After a while however, the happiness began to wear off, and a huge wave of nausea washed over his body. He ran to the toilet and sat there for half an hour, constantly vomiting. Once he'd cleaned himself up, he crept back to his bedroom to get a paracetamol for his now pounding head._

_The poor boy crawled into bed, and wept sadly._


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